Black Sand Odyssey
by wanderingandwriting
Summary: 1979. The First Wizarding War. An outcast, a squib, and all their friends: As the bloody War continues gaining momentum, Sirius and Juliet, two souls bounded by circumstance yet sundered by beliefs, find salvation in an unlikely bond, one that allowed them to forget the horror raining outside for one brief moment. But darkness, they soon learn, is never truly escapable.
1. PROLOGUE

**PROLOGUE**

 **(** _March, 1968_ **)**

* * *

 **"WE CAN FIX YOU,"** the man's words were back in her head. It had been weeks since she'd last seen him, yet his wrinkled face was vivid in her mind's eye as though she may have just seen him a blink ago. His appearance was as shabby as his voice was rich; it was powerful, strong and clear, and it resounded in her head over and over again like the beat of a drum. Or the heartbeat that she could still feel pounding fiercely inside her chest. "We can fix this, Juliet."

 _Don't_ , she saw her brother's solemn face. She could sense the tight grip he had on her wrist just moments ago, the lingering kiss he left on her forehead as she slipped out of the library to meet their mother downstairs. _Don't let them do this, Juliet._ As though she had a say in the matter. But she didn't want one either, did she? Little girls did not interfere in their parent's decisions, her mother often said.

Weeks ago, when fresh snow still floated about the air, Juliet had been summoned to her father's study. Amber, her dear mother, had found a solution, her father had whispered. For her, for Juliet. She prayed this would make things better for her. Perhaps they did too, though whether they prayed for her or for themselves, Juliet would never be sure. Her parents had been peering at her from an early age, scrutinizing her actions, exchanging worried glances with one another that did not go unnoticed by Juliet. It was one of the many odd behaviors around her that reminded Juliet she wasn't like her siblings or cousins. They never had anyone breathing down their neck. Not a soul ever grimaced when they walked into a room. And above all, they weren't tethered to their homes the way she was; they were free.

 _But this will fix everything_. The words, her own, had comforted her for weeks, yet they failed to calm the fire coursing through her nerves now. _Mama knows how to fix me_.

Juliet's bare feet made little noise as they glided over the icy marble floors at Waelmore House. Turning around a corner, the young girl continued marching through the opulently decorated hallways of her ancestral home, her breath in her fist, passing dozens of dozing pictures and several breathing armors. She could almost swear an rusted barbute had turned towards her retreating form, watching her disappear into the depths of the forlorn mansion, answering the dreaded call which had frightened her siblings and servants alike.

The smell of burnt sage and castor oil greeted her senses the moment she pushed past those heavy, carved oak doors. Beyond, the glass-walled garden was bathed in an eerie blue light, a glow caused by the small flame burning in the hearth near the back. Juliet walked a few paces blindly, heart thrumming, lungs burning, before coming to an abrupt halt. The sickening haze quickly clouded her vision, making her eyes water and throat tighten. It made her long for the warmth of her bed all the more, where the pillows smelled of fresh vanilla and the windows allowed the shimmering moonlight to brighten even the darkest corners. Where her sister, with her sharp features but kind smiles and deep red hair, sang her sweet lullabies and kissed her goodnight.

"Juliet." Her mother's voice was crisper than the howling winds outside. It was a curt tone, had always been for as long as Juliet could remember, laced with its usual boredom and irritation, and it promptly shattered all her dreams of comfort and safety. "Come over here, please."

The last vestiges of warmth abandoned Juliet as she approached the table at which her mother, dressed in blue satin, was seated at along with her father to the right. A lanky man wrapped in a tattered cloak sat opposite her mother. Grigori Craid. _We can fix you, Juliet_.

Juliet evaded the man's gaze as she approached the small gathering of three. There were papers littering every inch of the cherrywood table, painted in odd symbols and letters that made very little sense to her. She caught a glimpse of red herbs and dried roots, some delicate wings in a drawstring pouch, a tiny bottle with rotten-leaf colored gas swirling inside.

Amber's eyes were trained upon her youngest daughter's, her face placid and void of all emotions. Beside Amber, her husband sat with an expression that matched his wife's. Iwan Walsh was a man of old etiquette; his decorum marked his distinction, and so it was with a jolt of confusion that Juliet noted her father was slouching in his chair. He met Juliet's gaze calmly, matching his wife in her phlegmatic expressions, though Juliet could tell, even at eight, that both her parents were hiding their distress underneath that placid facade. She could see it in Amber's white knuckles and Iwan's taut smiles. It made Juliet want to weep. "Papa-"

"Hello again, fair Juliet," the stranger interrupted. His voice was rich and deep, almost melodious, just the way she remembered. Juliet found herself meeting his gaze in spite of herself; his voice commanded attention, admiration even. "Have a seat, why don't you, my child."

Throwing her long braid over her shoulder, Juliet tried to remain steady as she fell into the empty chair across her father. "Thank you," said Juliet, choking on her own words.

"Now," Grigori spoke, thrusting a cup into Juliet's smaller hands, who did not need to be told to drink it. The honeyed liquid slid down her throat easily, leaving a lemony taste in its wake. It warmed her insides faster than her father had said it would.

Glancing sideways, Juliet saw Grigori wearing a small grin. "That was quick of you. Eager to get things done, aye? I think it best too. Less, uh, displeasing this way."

She could only nod.

"This is safe, isn't it?" Her father spoke for the first time all evening. "You promise this will not-"

"Mr. Walsh." Grigori did not blink much, Juliet noticed. "I stand by what I said during our previous conversation. I had hoped you didn't foster any doubts anymore. I will need your trust and patience if we are to attempt a hand at such an arcane magic."

Amber cleared her throat. "Iwan is a rather protective father. You must have noticed as much by now, Grigori. I apologize on his behalf."

"I do not need apologies, Mrs. Walsh."

Amber shook her head. "No. Trust, then? You have my, _our_ , trust, Grigori."

Her mother's words seemed to appease Grigori for he gave her a curt nod before promptly turning towards Juliet once more, as did his crooked grin. His gaze never wavered as he looked upon her and said, "I need you to hold out an arm for me, dear Juliet. This won't take long."

Juliet felt her heart jump in her throat, though she forcibly swallowed the feeling. It was all to make her better, Juliet reminded herself as she stared into Grigori's eyes. Searching for something to calm herself with, to remind her why she must let them go through with this, Juliet went through the list she had constructed over the course of her few short years: she thought of the Potter boy at the Christmas party three years ago, how he made the toffees dance in their crystal bowls, and how everyone cheered jovially at it. The face of the older McKinnon girl who had sat beside her once, how she had accidentally, effortlessly, turned her mother's hair blue in a fit of rage. The adoration on the Lestrange's faces as their baby boy, barely able to walk, managed to blow out his birthday candles with just a fierce blink. She had never made anything of the like happen. But she could, perhaps.

Gathering herself, Juliet held out a trembling arm to Grigori. _We have to fix this_.

He pulled out a wand made of light-colored wood, chipped at the ends and fragile like the hand holding it. With a reassuring smile, Grigori pressed the tip of the battered wand to Juliet's forearm, and Juliet felt as though a hundred needles poked her arm. She had let out a small whimper before she looked down. That's when she gasped.

From the tip of the wand, a small cut had spread out, exposing bright red to Juliet's eyes.

"What...what... Papa," she stuttered. They had told her how this would work. The potion she would quietly drink, the blood she would willingly give. And yet the sight made her insides churn. _Ellis said not to_. "Mama, please."

"Shhh." Her mother's hand rubbed soothing circles into her linen-clad thigh, practiced ministrations that did not achieve their intended purpose. Comfort had never been so far out of reach for the eight year old.

Grigori's face swarmed in front of her. He held her gaze, never blinking. "It'll take a few seconds, only a few. But it may hurt. You, Juliet, must be brave."

She said nothing, nor did she move a muscle.

"You understand me, Juliet?" Grigori prodded. "You must do everything you can to pull through. It won't take long, but it will make everything better. It can fix you. Juliet?"

She could only provide the briefest of nods. It was enough for both Grigori and her mother.

"Go on," Amber encouraged, and Grigori drew in a breath.

Her father leaned forward, nodding reassuringly, though he could not muster a smile for his youngest child. " _Mae'n iawn fy nghariad_ , Juliet."

Juliet felt pain just before she saw Grigori's lips move. Then his mouth kept chanting a long spell and the pain kept rising through her veins, spreading to her arms, her chest, until her entire body felt aflame. She was drowning in darkness, a lonely place where the smell of sage lingered on her tongue and the feel of pain danced before her eyes. It climbed. The pain climbed, higher and higher, up and up, faster and faster. Juliet could feel her fear, her desperation, yet they didn't feel like her own. It felt alien, and left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She had thought she'd be able to taste freedom, had hoped so desperately to feel what magic felt like, yet she was all but embroiled in pain and misery. And there, lingering on the edges of all she felt was a sliver of excitement. It shimmered and thrived and Juliet knew it wasn't hers.

 _We can fix you, Juliet._

It felt like ages had passed by while time stood still when the thread, the feeling, snapped at long last, only for a new wave of agony to wash over her. No words would come to her aid. She could hear nothing but the loud whisper of fear, couldn't see anything beyond the darkness that threatened to destroy her.

There was just her, Juliet Betrys, and hollow, icy pain that would most certainly shatter her into pieces.

 _We can fix you._

* * *

¹ _Mae'n iawn fy nghariad_ (Welsh): It's fine, my darling.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Welp. I'm not sure how I feel about this prologue but there it is._  
 _And so begins Juliet Walsh's story._

 _I would love to hear your thoughts_  
 _on this piece here, so don't forget_  
 _to leave your reviews **!**_

 _And thank you for reading BSO._  
 _━Elaine._


	2. LETTERS TO THE FALLEN

**CHAPTER 1  
** _LETTERS TO THE FALLEN_

* * *

 **(** _5th April 1979_ **)**

 **THE INK** bled across the parchment at an agonizingly slow pace, it's fine veins forming a delicate black web that moved outwards from where Sirius' quill remained stationary.

They took turns, the younger members of the Order to whom Mary MacDonald could refer to as friends and acquaintances, in writing letters and updating her about an outside world that turned a deeper shade of brutal each passing day.

As the thirteenth month of Mary's isolation creeped closer, the task of writing had befallen Sirius. He scarcely knew what to say; there was far too much happening to ink in, yet there was nothing significant enough for him to put into a letter. Indeed, words seemed to escape him just as sunshine did England these days.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Sirius noticed the sky weeping yet again, enveloping the city of Ripon in a misty, ashen blanket of sickening melancholia. Above the incessant splatter of rain creeping down windowpanes and the occasional crack of thunder, the din of muggle cars rose devilishly, their ungodly melody of honks and screeches becoming a stark contrast to the deathly stillness looming inside the young man's flat.

Sighing, Sirius accepted defeat. He set his quill down in favor of reaching sideways to pull out a tiny, forlorn piece of parchment from underneath the hefty monstrosity of a book, _Innovative_ _Charmwork for the Competent, Vol. IX_. He briefly considered going through it as Remus had suggested several weeks ago, but he decided against it. There were more pressing matters he had to deal with.

Unfurling the note in his hands, Sirius felt the familiar feeling of confusion and apprehension bloom in his mind. The rather mysterious note had haunted him all week, all through the bi-weekly Order meetings, and through all the cumbersome patrolling duties. Nothing and no one had been able to distract him from his secret.

 _Black,_ it began in a scrawl that Sirius knew did not belong to the writer on a good day.

The next few lines were nothing more than a smudge, the rain having dissolved its crimson ink long before it got to him. The letter itself was incredibly concise, five lines in all, and now barely two of them were legible. Not for the first time did Sirius wonder why the other man hadn't had the sense to cast an Impervius Charm on it beforehand; the sight of the hasty scribbles whispered tales he did not want to entertain just yet.

The legible lines did not make much sense to him either:

 _...by 13th at best. Seen R by Truro; Chester is all baubles._

It was a clearly coded message, though Sirius could not decipher it; Ellis and him had never worked together, so it wasn't a surprise that Sirius had no idea what Ellis' codes meant. He had spent the better part of the past week pouring over the note, trying to make sense of _R_ , and _Chester_ being _baubles_ , and whatever it was that was supposed to happen by the 13th.

He wondered why he had received the message too. Sirius and Ellis had never been friends; they were barely acquaintances. They moved in different circles, did different jobs for the Order. They had never corresponded before. And they never, ever, discussed information regarding the Order's missions apart from at meetings. It was a known and sworn rule they all had to abide by. So it was with vivid certainty that Sirius knew the message was for his eyes only, and the need to know why drove him insane.

If there was something about the note that bothered him even more, it was the last line. Sirius' voice echoed in the largely unfurnished bedroom as he read the end to himself again, and again:

 _Ask Dumbledore to keep an eye_  
 _on Ettie for me, will you Black?_

 _Best,_  
 _Ellis_ _._

The first golden rays had begun coloring the night sky outside by the time Sirius finally retired for bed. The note tucked safely underneath the charms book once again, and he was still nowhere near knowing what it was all about.

* * *

 _Letter From Sirius to Mary_

7th April 1979

Ms. Mary MacDonald  
413 Hollybrook Way  
Dingle,  
Ireland

Mary —

I hope this letter finds you well. I hope this letter finds you. With Lily and Remus off for Order work, I had but little assistance with Muggle post. Dumbledore has firmly discouraged the use of Owl Post, you see, believing it no longer to be the safest method of communication. The Order will keep in touch, Mary, although the frequency of letters may diminish greatly, I'm afraid. I am told to tell you to use Muggle communication whenever you must, though perhaps not too much; it is infinitely safer than magical means, but only for now. It won't take Voldemort very long to sabotage this too.

Kindly excuse the smudges on the side of this letter, will you? I stained the parchment whilst trying to both write and shove Peter out the house — said he wanted to discuss a 'complication'. Judging by his muddy boots and haggard appearance, not to mention a delightful scent lingering upon him that one would never wear to a civil gathering, I can only imagine it has something to do with an untimely pub stop and possibly a skirmish with one of the other lads. Yes, most of us still don't get along well enough. Over a year and not a thing has changed since you left.

In moderately thrilling news, the other day Fenwick — remember that lanky Hufflepuff boy two years ahead of us? Prefect with the blue eyes Lena liked? Well, Benjy Fenwick and James, bless him, got into a bit of trouble. They were arguing about how the members should be organized into groups and threw a few punches around to prove their competence when the conversation got heated. Lily wonders whether it was true anger at one another or simply pent up frustration we've all been feeling lately, the answer to which I do not have. The brawl itself was moderately amusing for about thirty seconds. Remus yawned thrice during those brief moments of insanity, Alice continued knitting a, frankly speaking, ghastly looking, sweater-like, wooly object (don't tell her I said that!), and Vance intervened after she finished her cuppa. Benjy was left with a bruised ego, James a bruised jaw. Not sure who's better off...

I would bore you with 'humorous' details of our life here, but I doubt you'll appreciate my, or anyone else', polite parrying any longer. As you may have likely guessed, our numbers are slowly dwindling and patrolling hours are thus increasing (and no one is particularly thrilled about that).

The war has never been so stagnant; people are losing their nerve now. Or is it their hope?

The past week has been oddly silent, Mary. This entire month has been silent, now that I take a moment to recall it. Not one muggle found dead in their bed, no wizard tortured under his own roof, no witch kidnapped in broad daylight... nothing at all. I suppose crimes have become our new reality, and each day that passes by in peace only serves to add to our misery. Ironic, isn't it? Peace making us anxious, who'd have thought this day would come.

Voldemort and his rats must be planning something, I'm sure of it. So is Dumbledore, I bet; I confronted - is that even the right word? - Dumbledore the other day and he only said "patience, Sirius, can do wonders in time of dire need". It was hardly the answer I was searching for, and it left me with even more questions. The man refuses to say anything substantial. It's become exhausting.

As I said earlier, nothing much has happened since the last time we corresponded. I'm not certain if that is good or bad. I suppose we'll find the answer to that in due course. Until then, be patient and keep praying (Marlene's words, not mine. she insisted I write it). I imagine it isn't easy being holed up inside an old cottage, though I hope you've found some comfort in being with your family.

I'll say goodbye now. One of us plan on popping by later this month. If you need anything, write. You take care, Mary, and be alert at all times.

Your friend,  
 _S. O. Black_

 _P.S._ Alice and Frank are engaged, or so I saw — Frank proposed in the hallway just as we were getting ready to switch patrolling duties. Git.

 _*P.P.S._ We have had intel that's led us to believe the entire Floo network is being monitored at all hours; Quinten Scrooge is to be blamed, rumors suggest. Damn him to the seven hells and beyond.

* * *

 **(** _12th April 1979_ **)**

 **THE MEETING** was in full swing when Sirius got some of the answers he had longed for.

Sirius sat in one of the many chairs pushed inside the narrow living room that belonged to Joseph Sturridge, a frail old fellow with more ideas than he had energy. James Potter and Dorcas Meadows took their seats on either side of Sirius. Despite the sweltering heat, both inside the house and out, Dorcas sat with a scarf wrapped around her mouth. As peculiar as she looked, she had Sirius' sympathies; the room reeked of sweat and damp shoes, and of the stale coffee that was being passed around.

From his corner, Sirius could see the remaining members of the Order trickle inside, grabbing one of the many vacant chairs that had been neatly arranged by Mrs. Sturridge.

"I'll wager it's nine this time. You?"

Sirius smiled. It was a sad little game he and James took pleasure in: each meeting, they would place bets on how many seats would go unoccupied. Sirius usually won the two sickles.

What had once been a room full of over a hundred determined and skilled witches and wizards was now nothing more than a handful of dedicated members. The Order of the Phoenix had shrunk down to nearly a quarter of its prime strength, a fact that did not go unnoticed by anyone. Yet no one said a thing. They all put on their shabby cloaks and glum smiles each fortnight, walking into the newest safe-house to spend yet another few hours discussing modified patrolling duties and abstract plans to stop Voldemort's ever-expanding reign.

They all seemed to have turned a blind eye towards the truth that was now screaming in their faces: they were losing, and fast at that.

Sirius inhaled slowly, nearly retching at the putrid scent clouding his senses. He leaned his head towards James, whispering "I say it's fifteen."

He felt more than saw James' shoulders sag at those words. He glanced sideways, seeing the lopsided grimace make its way onto the other man's tired face, and Sirius instantly felt bad for having said anything at all. "Really, Sirius? Fifteen? Don't think we can afford losing that many yet."

Sirius looked away. _We can't afford losing anyone anymore_. "For your sake, let's hope I'm wrong."

By the time the meeting had crawled to its halfway point, marked by the appearance of fresh lemon scones thanks to Mrs. Sturridge, James had pressed two sickles into Sirius' hands while muttering "arse" loud enough for Ted Tonks, who sat a foot away, to spare the pair a disapproving glance.

Nibbling on the still warm scone, Sirius chanced a glance around the room. Everywhere he looked, everyone he saw, the same emotion was mirrored back at him: exhaustion. One after the other, the members who had been assigned patrolling duties and those who had been given field assignments, stood up in their spot and recounted the information they had gathered over the past two weeks. The reports contained much of the same details: traces of dark magic found here and there, news of businesses shutting down and more families going into hiding, and the occasional dementor sightings.

Then it was Remus' turn to speak. He stood up, dressed in a worn grey cardigan today, and had only just mentioned how he had been in Esher that past weekend, searching for Walsh and his team when it happened.

From a window behind Remus, a small, silvery-blue orb flew inside with a sharp rustling sound. It filled the room with a bright, pale blue light, and all movement ceased. The orb transformed into a horse that hovered a few feet above the ground.

"Benjy," mumbled Dorcas, her voice barely audible against the loud thumping of Sirius' heart. She sat up straighter, her hands clenched together as her forehead creased, a posture that was mimicked around the room.

The patronus perched itself right beside Dumbledore's chair, and all eyes were drawn to it, fixed upon its glowing form. The horse opened its mouth, Sirius inhaled sharply, and Benjy Fenwick's voice filled the air:

 _"Mary's at peace._  
 _Found 'er by the river, few feet from_  
 _Partridge safe house; seems ter be_  
 _the killing curse, but there be traces_  
 _o' other spells too._  
 _Four o' the patrolmen, plus reinforcement_  
 _of five, also dead. Do not send anyone_  
 _fer now. Unsafe ter clear the field._  
 _We'll be back by dawn."_

Benjy's voice, thick and hoarse and so unlike how it should have been, echoed around the room for a brief instant afterwards; it rang loudly against the chilling quietness that had descended upon the room. Sirius leaned back, letting his head collide against the wall that stood behind him with a soft thump.

With a solemn nod, the silvery mare vanished as quickly and unexpectedly as it had materialized, taking away the exhaustion and boredom of the gathering with it and leaving something far more terrible and twisted in its stead: sorrow.


	3. DEATH AND DUTY

_**A/N: _The_ following chapter includes 3 POVs: **  
**Juliet Walsh (OC),**  
 **James Potter, and**  
 **Erma Selwyn (OC).**_

* * *

 **JULIET I.**  
❨ _3rd December, 1978_ ❩

The blustery November air was as icy as her mother's heart, Juliet thought to herself coolly as she walked into the raging winter outside the shopping plaza. The chill numbed not just her skin but her senses too and dampened her spirits for good measure. Juliet shivered as she pushed past hordes of shoppers, clutching the straw-colored coat she had donned that morning closer to her body, praying for it to retain the fleeting flickers of warmth.

The wind roared in her ears as she traced her way through the streets of central London with practiced ease, paying little heed to the world living around her; the world did not acknowledge her either. _Neither this one nor my own_. Juliet pushed the thought away as she walked past a large Tesco. People rushed past her, their arms laden with bags of all sizes and colors, each racing against time and cold to finish their tasks. Christmas was nearer now, and there was much to be done.

Juliet tightened her hold on her satchel as she weaved through the dense crowd along Carnaby Street, going over her shopping list in her mind to ensure she hadn't forgotten anyone:

 _Earrings for Janelle_  
 _Wine glass set for Addy_  
 _The Beatles record for Joan_  
 _Margaret's candles_  
 _Daisy's hand lotion_  
 _Chocolates for Fergie and Dan,_  
 _and a rattle for their baby_  
 _A cashmere cardigan for Isola._

Remembering the sweater (not that she had forgotten it in the first place) made Juliet's heart sink just a little. Priced at £310, the sweater's cost equaled far more than the rest of her shopping combined. It was a rather extravagant gift, and Juliet had had her qualms about splurging on it. But running her hands along the soft edges of the deep emerald-colored cardigan, noting the fine stitching on the underside of it, Juliet became certain it would look impeccable upon her sister, and soon she found herself paying for an overpriced cardigan at the Burberry counter.

"Oi! Ah, sorry miss," a man grumbled under his breath as he pushed past her in haste. He was gone before Juliet could say a word, and she had scarcely walked two feet when someone bumped into her once more, this time a small group of middle aged men. They all breezed past her, brushing her shoulders lightly and leaving the scent of tobacco in the air.

Looking over her shoulder, Juliet tried to see where the men had been rushing to but only found a long stretch of shoppers and street vendors bustling before her eyes.

"Excuse me," another man bumped into Juliet, this one tall and hefty, and he left her shoulder slightly aching where his body had collided with her. He too was in a hurry and did not stop to witness Juliet's response.

By the time she reached the corner of the street she lived on, twenty minutes later, Juliet could sense the distinct taste of trouble lacing the air. There was an urgency spreading through the city, making people rush around her, tension creasing their foreheads. They pushed and stomped through the streets, several of them, and Juliet could tell something wasn't right by the way they had abandoned all courtesy.

The sun hung low in the sky when Juliet pushed into her small apartment, sunset glow streaming through the windows to drench the entire place in deep orange. Setting her shoppers on the floor, Juliet moved quickly through her house, drawing curtains and hanging her coat behind the door. When she flipped on her television, the same headlines flashed on every channel she went through.

"Officials have yet to comment on the reasons for this fire," a reporter spoke as she stood in front of a tall but old building, flames licking at it from every corner. Juliet didn't need to hear much to know the building, one of governmental significance and thereby built with the best of security systems possible, would never catch a fire so lethal so easily. "Witnesses have said that the fire engulfed the state building almost instantaneously, suggesting that a substantial amount of explosive had been involved in this incident. As of now, we have no details on who was responsible behind this incident"

Juliet changed the channels quickly. A man named Steven stood before the northern side of the same building as he reported for BBC, "There are estimated to be 103 casualties so far, but the number is likely to be much higher given the hour the fire broke out at. The fire department has been, as you can see behind me, working tirelessly to extinguish the flames for the past hour, but the task is proving to be much difficult given the sheer size of this fire and how fiercely it has spread."

"A fifty foot radius has been set for evacuation around Hallsburry Park," the journalist for CNN informed, thick tufts of smoke roaring behind her, "as the amount of smoke and fumes being released is likely to cause some health concerns, officials believe. London government is advising all citizens to remain indoors until further notice."

Juliet leaned back into her sofa. Even behind closed eyes, the sight of the entire 200ft building engulfed in flames swarmed before her. She could only imagine the degree of devastation this incident would result in, to both society and economy. Though she knew that the media would most likely call it an accident, _an unfortunate combustion accident_ or _a meltdown in the wiring. This summer heat, you know?_ Juliet had a strong feeling the real cause was something else. There had been far too many 'incidents' of late; buildings burning and bridges collapsing, people disappearing off the surface of the Earth in the blink of an eye, never to be found again, and others often being found dead without any traces of wounds or poison in subsequent autopsies.

 _The Muggles have no idea_ , Juliet thought to herself as she slumped into her sofa, rubbing her temples to ease some of the tension. _So how can they ever hope to defeat this?_

The Scotland Yard was busy scratching their heads, to no avail whatsoever. England was caught in a storm of invisible terror, a shadow that was slowly killing and reaving and bleeding the country, merciless and mysterious in its ways.

No one, not the British government nor its people, knew who was behind these disasters sweeping over the country. But Juliet did know; she knew exactly who was wrecking havoc across the UK, and she knew she was the last person who could ever help.

 _I could never help fix this, just as I could never fix myself._

* * *

 **JAMES I.**  
❨ _5th December, 1978_ ❩

The morning had arrived with a sky that was bright and blue and without a trace of the murky clouds that had plagued nearly the whole of England for the past week. Though the December chill still marred the warmth of the sunlight, it was nevertheless a beautiful day. A beautiful day that had no appeal at all in James Potter's eyes. It was a beautiful day, and yet he had never been sadder.

Today was the day of Mary's funeral.

Held nearly a week after Benjy Fenwick had found her body, Mary McDonald's final resting place was in a little town on the outskirts of Liverpool. It was a long distance from her own hometown in Scotland, but the Order had concluded that Mary's home was far too compromised now for them all to convene, even if it was for a few minutes. It was highly likely, Mad-eye Moody had insisted, that Death Eaters were keeping an eye around Mary's old home, expecting someone to come and bury her and her family there. _A fine chance for the bastards to get their hands on one of us and get us to spill our guts to the Dark Lord_ , Moody had laughed a humorless laugh. No one had laughed or smiled in return, yet they had all silently agreed. It was dangerous indeed, and they couldn't have anyone else face the same fate the McDonald's had met.

And yet, James couldn't help but wish they could have arranged a better funeral. He had known Mary McDonald briefly during his time at Hogwarts, but they had run several missions for the Order together, and he had grown to like her. It saddened him to remember the short-haired girl with the wide smile, always quiet but never shy.

"You holding up alright?"

It took him a moment to realize the question was directed at him. Lily was looking at him closely, her brows knitted as she waited for his reply.

James offered a small smile before nodding, "Yeah, I guess I am. You?"

Lily simply shrugged. They walked together, side by side, for a few minutes, quietly approaching the place where a priest stood beside a dark mahogany coffin. As they drew closer, James saw Remus and Peter standing a few feet away from the priest, talking in quiet voices with Benjy Fenwick and one of the Prewett twins. Remus spotted him first and lifted an eyebrow in greeting.

James felt a small flush make its way down his neck as he and Lily stopped to greet the priest. While Lily, ever so polite, chatted a while longer, James excused himself and strode over to his friends.

"Lily doing okay?" Remus asked as they shook hands.

James shrugged. "Suppose she's doing as well as any of us are really."

"You didn't ask?"

"She didn't say."

They were quiet then, simply watching few of the other Order members trickle in.

"I wasn't expecting to see you," Remus began slowly, "with...I mean... you know."

James sighed. "I do, and I don't know what you want me to say, Remus. Where's Sirius?"

"No clue." Remus stopped to say hello to Lady Hilda, another member of the Order, as she passed by the two boys. Her white hair was pulled back into a low bun, and she wore dark robes that matched her dark eyes and its accompanying dark circles. She wiped a tear as she walked past James, who belatedly realized he should have at least said hello to the kind, if only a little too solemn, lady. Remus continued talking in his ear. "Sirius is never on time anyway, is he? And I just meant, I thought you two looked okay there, if only a little distant."

Dumbledore suddenly appeared from behind a tree and walked over to the priest. Both dressed in dull grey robes, the two old men spoke quietly and solemnly. James glanced around to see Lily sitting with her arm around Emma Vance. They both looked as though they were crying. "We're at a funeral, mate. Everyone is supposed to look sad and distant. And really, of all the times he had to be late, a funeral is not one of them."

"Try explaining the importance of punctuality to Sirius, why don't you," Remus whispered as they all moved closer to where the four coffins were placed, forming a dense circle around them. "Have you tried talking to Lily?"

"Evans is not much of a talker these days."

"I didn't say she should be the one talking."

"Piss off," James mumbled, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his neck. "I don't need to explain anything to anyone."

Remus shot him a glance just as the priest began speaking:

"In the Name of the Father, and of  
the Son, and of the Holy Spirit..."

"She's not anyone, is she?" Remus said as he shifted on his feet. James noticed the dark purple shadows under his eyes for the first time since he had arrived.

"Talking about Evans?" Sirius' voice came from behind the two unexpectedly, and both James and Remus started. "Sorry I'm late."

James glanced over his shoulder to see Sirius twisting his black tie into a hasty knot. Droplets of water still dripped from his hair, and his shirt looked in desperate need of an ironing. "I waited by St. Joseph's for you for ages, you know?"

"Want me to thank you?" Sirius asked as the priest continued his sermon. Looking around, James could see Mad-eye Moody fidgeting where he stood, no doubt anxious for the funeral to end as soon as possible. "Had to cover for Longbottom this morning. My hours ended what... ten minutes ago? Something like that."

Sobs and sniffles filled the air as the sermon continued: "...God, you are the source of life. In you we live and move and have our being. keep us in life and death in your love, and, by you grace, lead us..."

"Where's Pete?"

For the first time since he had arrived, James noticed Peter's absence. It wasn't like him to be late for things, and certainly not funerals or weddings. Plus, James remembered how well Mary and Peter had gotten along.

It was, unsurprisingly, Remus who answered Sirius' question. "Norwich. Stationed there for some shadowing business."

Sirius snorted. "Who thought it was a good idea to let Peter shadow anyone? He's as graceful at it as Hagrid is at waltz."

"Have you seen Hagrid waltz?"

"No, but I have seen Peter try to be quiet and unnoticeable. Not his forte."

Mr. Wiseman, a middle-aged ministry employee by day and Order member by night, made a loud shushing noise from Remus' other side. They were quiet then as the priest talked about war and sacrifice, death and duty. James' eyes unwittingly found Lily's hunched form. Her gaze fixated upon the coffin, she kept sniffling every few seconds, fidgeting with the rose she held in her hands. A part of him whispered he should stand beside her, hold her hand and comfort her. A larger voice in him screamed for him to stay where he was.

The sun had disappeared behind thick clouds by the time the ceremony reached its conclusion. After they had all taken turns letting a handful of dirt fall onto the lowered coffins, the priest once more took his place at the head of the gathering to utter the final few words before they all could part ways. Moody had already buttoned his long, patched black coat.

Then Remus nudged James sharply.

Feeling his face grow warm, James tore his gaze away from Lily who had begun crying. Focusing his eyes on the ground in front of him, James tried to not think of the tumultuous thoughts that had been ringing in his mind for days now. _You're at a funeral, James_ , he reminded himself, _focus on the funeral. Mary deserves better than your distracted thoughts._

Minutes passed by as they sang a few hymns in low voices. It made both Moody and Dumbledore visibly uncomfortable. Lily and Emma were the only ones not singing. Vance was sobbing, and James knew Lily was just barely controlling her tears.

Sirius sighed loudly from where he stood right behind James. "Stop staring at your girlfriend, for Christ's sake, James!"

James' eyes snapped back to the ground as Remus let out a soft sigh and turned to look at Sirius. Something twisted within James, painful and sad, as he whispered as evenly as possible, "you forgot to mention the 'ex' before girlfriend, mate."

"Shit," was his best friend's only response before another glare and shush from Mr. Wiseman shut them all up for good. It was only a few minutes later, though it felt like an eternity, that the priest wrapped up the entire funeral ceremony and said his concluding words:

"At the moment of our death, make us  
ready to depart in peace. And when the  
eternal day of resurrection dawns upon  
the graves of the earth, grant us grace  
to rise to eternal life."

James straightened his shoulders and glanced up and, for one fleeting second, his eyes met Lily's as everyone gathered together said in a single, strong voice, "Amen."

* * *

 **ERMA I.**  
❨ _16th December, 1978_ ❩

There was nothing Erma Selwyn loved more than learning a good secret. The allure of having knowledge not many were privy to was much too strong for her to resist giving into the temptation to make people spill their secrets. And God was she good at it.

Blessed with a tongue as silver as the serpent emblazoned upon the crest of a house she had belonged to during her years at Hogwarts, eloquence was one with Erma. That and the ability to move as silent as a ghost which complimented her undying curiosity. It was why she now found herself pressed against shelves of meat inside the larder at their country home in Derbyshire.

In the darkened larder, where Erma dared not light a candle lest she give her presence away, the stench of raw meat was heady yet she stayed put, her ears trained on the slightly muffled voices coming in through the slightly ajar wooden door. In the kitchen beyond, her brother sat at the breakfast table with a friend she did not recognize. They spoke together in hushed voices and irk laden tones. The words 'orders' and 'compromised' and 'dangerous' sounded quite often, but much of the rest of their conversation was largely inaudible to her. It was, nevertheless, clear her brother and his friend were discussing the War. And disagreeing, judging by the sounds of their frequent huffs and grunts.

Even where she stood hidden, Erma could still smell the strong and mossy, fruity smell of their father's preferred Darjeeling tea. _Ever the courteous host_ , she mused, _no wonder Ewan is Mama's dear boy_. She neither knew how to brew the perfect pot of tea like her brother nor how to welcome guests into their home with a perfect smile like her younger sister. _I can do other things better though_ , Erma had decided once the War had broken out, _things that can help me in the War one day_.

She was acutely aware that standing hidden in a meat larder was hardly the way to aid in a war, however. _Just another year_. At 16, when her parents and brother sat around tables with their friends and acquaintances, passing around pots of tea and plates of biscuits, Erma had long been deemed too young to be included in their meetings, often forcibly excluded from most discussions of War and its happenings. But her curiosity was something Erma could not suppress, and hence the routine of hiding in nooks and crannies across her home to eavesdrop upon reports the adults in her home exchanged had become one of Erma's favorite hobbies.

"You don't understand! We're all bloody screwed if he gets caught." A voice boomed suddenly, and clearly, and Erma nearly jumped out of her skin. It was not her brother who had spoken. "Norwich isn't safe anymore. Chester is already compromised, and London might as well be lost, the way things are lookin'!"

Ewan hushed his friend then, whispering something which caused one of the two men to sigh loudly and let loose a string of colorful words that made Erma blush slightly.

From a sneaky glance at her father's post, Erma had learned For a long moment neither men spoke again, and Erma wondered whether they had left. Then, Ewan Selwyn asked, "Has anyone heard from Walsh yet?"

"Nah," her brother's friend replied, "he's been gone for days now. We're plannin' a search party tonight. Care to join?"

Ewan remained silent for a heartbeat. "I can't," he spoke quietly yet his voice was no longer muffled. Erma realized they were finished discussing the important matters now for they were hardly keeping their voices down. "My family is having dinner together tonight."

Ewan's friend must have given him a look because when her brother spoke again, Erma could hear the defensive expression he wore when he explained himself to anyone.

"I just came back from Wales, and it took hours to explain to my folks why I was gone for over a week without a word," Ewan admitted, and his words piqued Erma's attention. Her brother had insisted he had been in London during the ten days and that he had been forced to stay and help a friend who had been injured in the London fires which happened on the 15th. Wales was far, far away from London.

"If I leave again so soon, they'll become suspicious. They don't know I'm part of this, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Her brother sounded exhausted, defeated even, and Erma had never been more interested in his life — there really was nothing Erma Selwyn loved more than learning a good secret.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_**

 ** _Okay. So the chapter sets up quite a few future_ _events, and foreshadowed some stuff_ _that I can't wait to eventually write. If_ _anyone's_ _worried_ _, no I have_ _n't_ _forgotten_ _Peter Pettigrew nor do I mean to exclude_ _him. I promise he's very much a Marauder_ _and he'll have some scenes as we move on._ _He just didn't fit into this chapter for a_ _reason, which you'll learn of eventually_ _(...and it's maybe not what you're thinking tbh.)_**

 ** _Anyways. Huge thank you to anyone __who read the whole damn thing. Gosh,_ _I love you so much!_**


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